


Results are Priceless

by Tentaculiferous



Series: Prowl x Jazz 10th Anniversary Challenge Fics [5]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Drinking, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Other, ProwlxJazz10thAnniversary, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 11:05:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12188790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tentaculiferous/pseuds/Tentaculiferous
Summary: Prowl had always considered high-grade to be a useless, frivolous indulgence. That changes when the "liquid courage" finally lets him spill his feelings to Jazz...





	Results are Priceless

**Author's Note:**

> This was for the prompt "Useless" which to me, seemed to be just begging for an angsty fill. So I decided to go with a happy one instead.

Prowl stared at the luridly glowing cubes of high-grade, their pink hue throwing a warm light across his desk. Refining high-grade—what a completely pointless, frivolous waste of resources that were necessary for the war effort. The energy concentration in them was so dense that it was beyond what most mechs needed or could use, in the time period it took for their frames to process it. Resulting in the high of overcharge, as their systems dealt with the excess energy.

Someone—some Autobot aboard this very ship—had taken perfectly good, useful, efficient mid-grade, and refined it into this hyper concentrated form. The refining process itself wasted more energy than was contained in the cube. Thinking of it made Prowl's processor ache. It was just a mathematically wrong action. 

"They've already been brewed, mech. It would be a terrible thing to waste resources." Jazz teased. 

"They've already been wasted." Prowl said. His doorwings twitched in agitation. 

"A terrible thing to further waste 'em, then." Jazz said. "The only way to reclaim some of those resources...is to drink 'em."

"This is contraband."

"And, once contraband is no longer needed as evidence, it's up to the ranking officers to decide how to dispose of it."

Prowl wasn't the only one that knew his way around the Autobot Code. Jazz liked to be familiar with it for other reasons—one should know the rules to break them, or to bend them to their liking. 

"I don't think consuming the illicit confiscated goods is what the writers of the Code meant when they said 'dispose'." Prowl said.

"We could always take it to the highest authority for interpretation." Jazz said, his voice merry. 

He had good reason to be merry about the possibility. Prowl knew exactly how the highest authority – the Prime--would react to Jazz's proposal. He was always telling Prowl he needed to take some time off for himself once in a while, relax. Optimus would think getting overcharged to the point of putting lampshades on his doorwings was exactly what his uptight second in command needed. 

"Storing them in preparation for future need would be the most strategic action." Prowl said, bullishly plowing ahead into another line of defense.

"Really, mech?" Jazz asked, his tone incredulous. "You know that's just going to get your office broken into within an orn." 

"The potential for future crime on the part of others is no reason to indulge in it oneself!" Prowl snapped.

Jazz rolled the optic flare in his visor. "I didn't suggest giving 'em to the crew. Just that you and I dispose of this in the most efficient way possible, putting it to use as an energy source and preventing future crimes." 

The damnable thing was, his battle computer mercilessly analyzed the two courses of action (as well as 47 lesser plans) and determined that Jazz's proposal was in fact, the best use of these dubious Autobot assets. 

"If we split one cube now, we can each keep store one cube in our subspace pockets. Leaving none for anyone to steal." Prowl said. It seemed a fair compromise to him. 

"Half a cube each? Even a mini-bot couldn't get a buzz from that..." Jazz complained. 

"The point of it is not to get a 'buzz' but to refuel." Prowl snapped.

Jazz raised his hands in front of him. "Okay, okay. Sheesh, mech, you really do need to relax..." he said, cracking the seal on the cube.

Prowl's doorwings hiked up in irritation. Jazz was privately amused by Prowl's huffy ways (but then, he found almost everything about Prowl made him smile, despite that not being the SIC's intention 99% of the time). 

Jazz produced two bell-shaped empty glasses from his subspace and began pouring the energon equally between them. Prowl crossed his arms, further annoyed at this example of frivolity. Fancy drinking glasses in one's limited storage space? As ridiculous as making high-grade in the first place. 

"Here you go, Prowler, drink up." Jazz slid the glass over to him, and took his own. He kept his visor trained on the uptight mech in front of him. No way was he letting Prowl out of this—a deal was a deal. 

With some trepidation Prowl touched the glass to his lips. Only Jazz's intense stare got him to tilt it back, letting the high-grade of extremely questionable origin slide into his mouth cavity. It burned his tongue with its harsh, unpleasant taste, and his throat muscles contracted, wanting to cough and expel the horrible substance. But he overrode the impulse, letting the high-grade pour into him. Contaminating him. His doorwings tensed. Jazz had to stifle a laugh at seeing Prowl act like he was drinking poison. Most of the mechs on the Ark would have taken a week of monitor-duty shifts in exchange for getting to cut loose with some quality high-grade. Not Prowl though. 

It was in this strange, tense silence that the two black and white mechs sipped their drinks, optics on each other the whole time. A little over halfway through his glass, Prowl found his doorwings sagging. It was just hard to keep them tense, when he had such a warm, good feeling coursing through him. He just felt...relaxed. 

Jazz took note of this change, of how Prowl's jaw was no longer tense, his doorwings lower than he'd ever seen them, his face more neutral and less of a frown. 

"You look cute when you're not all stressed out." Jazz said, playfully. 

"You look cute too." Prowl said, his voice serious. 

Jazz spluttered, coughing and struggling not to spit his high-grade back into his cube. 

Prowl smirked. Why had he waited so long to take action? Worries and what-ifs had always swirled in his processor, consequences and fears. But he knew what he wanted. The steps to achieve the goal were clear. 

"My tactical simulator has reminded me that at any given time, there is a 5% chance we may need to have at least 25% of our subspaces free for emergency transport of important assets...In which case it would be a liability to have excess space wasted storing contraband...when we could dispose of the rest of that contraband today. In your quarters or mine." Prowl said. 

"A...A far more efficient course of action, for sure!" Jazz said. He grabbed the cubes, subspacing them. 

"There is no rush. I have marked the two of us off-duty for the next orn. Although perhaps...two orns will be needed." 

Somehow that put even more speed in Jazz's step. Now it was Prowl's turn to be amused by the other mech's confounded eagerness. The other mech couldn't know it yet, but he was right to be eager.

It ended up taking three orns. They had disappeared into Prowl's quarters, and rumor around the Ark was that they were coming up with a master plan that would end the war once and for all...but the sappy, dazed grin on Jazz's face when he finally emerged had nothing to do with tactics. 

Not battlefield ones, anyway. Prowl had leaned in the doorway, watching the Spec Ops mech stagger away. Who said high-grade was useless, anyway?

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback, including critique, is always appreciated! ^^


End file.
